thank you for inspiring me.

i'm beginning to see how it can be really easy to play favorites as a teacher. some students are just cool. it's a little different working adult ed, as opposed to the traditional k-12 structure, but there are certainly some similarities. the funny and smart students are my favorite, i admit it, but so far i have no major complaints about anyone i've worked with. the night classes definitely bring more energy than the day classes.

there's two guys in my afternoon class on tuesdays and thursdays who seem pretty serious, until they ask me for help. then they start referring to me as hannah montana, halle berry, or a slough of other celebrities. i think they settled on hannah montana/miley cyrus because they heard the teacher say my name and thought it was miley. it could also be because i'm the only white girl in the room. who knows.

the middle aged men and women are my other favorites. they are very serious in their studies, and really care about the fact that they are here to get their g.e.d.'s. they can be a little difficult to work with sometimes because they are a lot of times unwilling to ask for help. i can't say that i blame them. they're grown men and women, and i'm young enough to be their daughter, and i'm helping them with basic math and fractions. it can be really hard to choose the right words to say. i want to be encouraging, but i don't always know how to encourage them in the right way.

there's always the teenagers, who i really like working with. it's always hard for me though. i can't help but wondering what circumstances brought them to a g.e.d. program rather than staying in high school. it can be anything from problems at home, to being harrassed at school, pregnancy, to simply not wanting to go. sometimes i'm shocked by how bright they are. sometimes i see their test scores and i want to cry for them because they have a learning disability/they really don't understand what they're learning/they have potential, but don't care.
there are teens that are getting it though. one girl, a student for the last year just took her g.e.d. i haven't had her as a student, but she is very sweet, and everyone loves her. this morning she spoke at a conference about high school retentions , and brought the place to tears to everyone there. i didn't hear her speak, but she told why she dropped out, how she moved around a lot as a child in a military family, and how by the time she reached high school, she just didn't care. she dropped, and was smart enough to figure out that quitting school would lead her nowhere. after she was done, she did three tv interviews, was asked to speak at two other g.e.d. programs, and was given a note by an old man that said, "i'm a cynical old man. thank you for inspiring me to teach for another year."

my favorite part so far about my job is not just working with the students, the very serious ones, the funny ones, and even the ones who don't want to be there. we have them write in the beginning of the session a paragraph about why they want to get their g.e.d.s. every time i read one, i am moved. each one speaks about wanting to do something better than what they are doing right now, whether it be helping their son or daughter with their homework or going to college. i read one tonight where the woman spoke about having wanted to become a nurse since she was a little girl. so many of the mothers and fathers speak about their children and the example that they are setting. i think it is beautiful.

mood swing.

dedicated to Sir Alex Goochey, who refused to let me give up on finding the person these poems are about.


(I.) This is How Much I Hate You
or I Wouldn't Be Sorry If.

If my car broke down
and you came instead of Triple A,
I’d start walking
until blisters, distance, or the elements
(not pride)
stood between me and my destination.
Then, and
only then, would I
demand you fix the car.
I would not say thank you.
I would give you a check.
The memo would say“You can still go to hell”
With one finger saying goodbye, I'd aim the wheels at you,
and step on the gas.

(II.) This is How Much I Hate You

I would
have coffee with Hitler
and dinner with Yoko Ono
spend my free time doing taxes and dishes
before spending time with you
or with anyone
who’s ever rubbed their elbows with yours
and mistakenly took you for pleasant.

<3

i was just sayng yesterday that it is curious how one day everything is awful and miserable.

and then the next day, everything is suddenly beautiful.

the sun is shining today, and i am going to have an adventure today.
i'm love with today already.

edit:

so i rode my bike over to my friends laura and andrew's apartment today. andrew has an accordian. and i played it. we went to the pawn shop, and a music shop. we closed the afternoon by watching dogs play in the park.

then i was almost hit by a garbage truck on my ride home. i'm sorry....but death by garbage truck? that is unacceptable, sir.

true life: cribz

i live here...for another month and a half or so.

please remember that :

a.) you must walk through each room to get to the final destination of the kitchen

b.) i didn't take pictures of my roommate's room because she wasn't home and that seemed a little creepy

c.) i have the bedspread of a 12 year old girl, and am desparately trying to upgrade to a grown up bedset.

d.) it took me way longer than necessary to put up these pictures, so don't expect this often.

anyway. pictures.

i've never had a palm tree in my front yard before!

The abandon house next to me. You can't see the decaying phone book on the porch, but you can kind of see the ivy-covered wrought iron gate that used to be over the front door.

living room in progress. (that's the front door. and there is a faux fireplace on the left. it has wondeful green tiling that i love and that you can't see.)

dining room (in progress).

my room. you can kind of see down the hallway to my roommate's room. to the left is the bathroom.

huge closet.

my faux fireplace

my room standing in the doorway to my roommate's room, and next to the bathroom

final destination: kitchen
after walking through chrissy's room.

there are built in wine racks. and there's a beautiful french door that goes to chrissy's room.
i love this kitchen.

out the back door, the abandon house next door.
that tree is growing in the back kitchen window.

this house used to be a bed and breakfast. and now?
the couple that owned it was in their 80s and never came back for it.

this used to be a garden. there's a lampost buried under there somewhere. you can't tell in the picture, but there's something still wildly beautiful about it. i love looking at it, even if by technicalities it is an eye sore.

an observation:

everyone here has a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a dog.
or some combination of the two.


i, apparently, missed the noah's ark memo.

church

I've been going to church at the Methodist church up the street from where I live. I've been wanting to get out and explore other churches, but I really like this one and it makes it hard to go anywhere else.

First Grace is a combination of two Methodist churches in the Mid-City neighborhood. One of them was a primarily black church, and the other a primarily white church. With the storm severely damaging both buildings and many members leaving the city, the two churches merged a year ago. In the afternoons, after the service in English, there is a Spanish service, as well. The head pastor is white, the associate pastor is black and female, and the third pastor is Latino. This was such a big event that the Times-Picayune, the New Orleans newspaper, published an article on the merge.

The building itself took on five feet of water during the storm, and the recovery process is slow, but sure. The altar steps are made of fresh new wood, but there is chipped paint on the pillars. The altar is small. They cover it with cloth, but underneath, I know that it is worn and roughly made. Every Sunday there is a new addition of some sort to the church. Now there are plants on the balcony, and a small fountain up front. There are cookies and punch afterwards, and sometimes there are meals served. A community garden grows out back, and the kids play on a on a new looking playground.

A few Sundays ago, the Latino pastor gave a sermon on diversity. He talked about the tower of Babel and how it separated people. Then he talked about how in the Book of Revelations, the body of Christ is a jumbled mess of diversity, and that the kingdom is not here yet if we are still so separated by color. There is much work to be done, he said. I thought it was a beautiful vision, and so truthful. He was never critical, just simply stating where we are and where we, as Christians, need to be.

I love to sit silently during worship and watch the people, especially during the passing of the peace. I've never seen more genuine or more beautiful people than during church. Handshakes, blessings, and even hugs from strangers speak from heart to heart. Most of the time I speak to the few people I know, but there is always a smothering hug from a stranger. There's a healing power in each hug; there is more peace in those hugs than in the words alone. I dread those chaotic moments when the congregation hugs and blesses each other, and yet it keeps pulling me back. If it weren't for those Sunday peace hugs, I would be untouched every other day.

There is one man, Hosey, who I love to watch. He is the Spirit in the flesh, I'm sure of it. His face literally glows with love every Sunday from his pew. My eyes are drawn to him and to the aura that surrounds him. He's medium height, very pear-shaped, and balding. He is aging, probably in his thirties, which is still young, but Hosey is very clearly has Down Syndrome. This adds to his charm, to his beauty. I like best to watch him when the choir sings. Hosey always stands to sway and clap with the choir. Sometimes he sings. His big back side swings from side to side and his face is pure and full of joy. And during the passing of the peace, he hugs his friends with the fiercest love.

Every Sunday, Pastor Shawn closes the sermon by inviting the congregation to become members of the church. It seems to me as a cross between an altar call and the membership profession that I grew up with. I hate the moment when he asks, but every time, someone leaves there seat and joins the pastor as a new member of the church. This Sunday, Hosey joined the congregation as a new member. He brought tears to everyone's when he looked at the church and said, "I love this church, and I love all of you."

This Sunday I sat behind a small old man that I noticed from the very first Sunday. He walks with a cane, and he sits next to a very stunning older Creole woman. His fine hair is cropped close to his head, and there are even wrinkles on his nearly bald head. He looks like a very delicious black peach. I watched him pray yesterday, and I could hardly keep myself from crying. I could see the prayer moving through his old, tired body, from his downward looking eyes, from his shoulders, from his outstretched arms. I wish I could paint a picture for you, but you can't paint what is pure. You'll see it for yourself someday, and you'll know how I felt about this man. You'll feel that same sense of love. You'll want to fall to your knees. You'll know when it happens to you.

the best thing ever today.

i promise i have a really great story coming tomorrow.

actually i'll just tell you now.

today i was at the bayou on a phone date with my friend annie. this man who had been napping underneath a tree for the duration of the call stood up. he swaggered, likely drunk, for a few steps. i was afraid he was going to fall into the water. he didn't, but he also did not fail to make a statement.

his pants dropped completely around his ankles.

the sun had not yet set, and there was a full moon.

the three little boys playing football and i laughed hysterically until he could pull his pants up. then the three little boys came up to me and said, "DID YOU SEE THAT? WERE YOU LOOKIN'?!" then one asked me to watch while he scored a touchdown.

when i rode my bike home, about 2 blocks up on the bike path, there was mr. no pants, happily asleep again under a different tree.

maybe i should have been a good samaritan and made sure that he didn't have alcohol poisoning or anything, but i had no sympathy. i do hope he woke up and got home before dark though. if he still has his wallet (and his pants), he will be a very lucky man.

Pg 51

A Formula for Quadratic Equations and the Function of the Hypotunuse Using the Pythagorean Theorem in Solving for the Absolute Value of Page 75 in your Math Text Book.

An absolute value isn’t any closer to
zero than I am, but if I
I exist,
then a number must, too.
And when you ask me
why does math have so many rules
I can ask you to:

solve for x if
x is a four leaf clover
and do you know what a clover looks like?

After studying and a series of short lectures on the
concepts of clovers
and maybe having a leperchaun
to show you what one is,
you’ll find one
with a calculator and time.

(10/14/08)

upd8

This is the website for Literacy Americorps.
Literacy Americorps is a national service organization, but the website is specific to the greater New Orleans area.

The site has our newsletter, blog, information if you are interested in serving, or donating. It also has Americorps member profiles, as well as information about literacy and our different sites. I recently just published a blog about some of the different students I am working with.

Ch-ch-check it out: www.literacygno.org

i haven't slept well in the last week. twisted dreams that keep me from resting. i dream of ghosts and familiar faces and people that i don't know yet, people that i maybe never will. the faces blur together in the dreams. often there are emergencies; a sense of urgency pervades my sleep.

it could be the dreams that are keeping me from sleep, but more likely, it's probably the futon i've been sleeping on. it will have a special place in heaven; i love it very dearly. one side is more worn in than the other, a comfy little nest. i loved that nest this summer, but it's gotten less recently. i've had to sleep on the edge of the nest. because my bed is in the corner of my room against two walls and the frame lends the bed to lie flat on the floor, i feel very small and alone when i am outside of the nest.

my parents offered to help me find a bed before i moved, and my dad wanted to help me find one before i left, but stubbornly i refused. this futon had seen me through the best and the worst times, and i would not let it go. it had been good enough for the summer, and it would be good enough for me now.

the event of the roaches changed my mind. for a week after the first sighting, i threw my covers back before i climbed into bed, making sure there was nothing in bed but me. it was time to face facts: it was time to look for another place to sleep beside that futon.

i perused craigslist several times a day, emailing about mattresses posted. i hoped to find a decent one for a decent prize. i emailed, making sure to add that i was a volunteer in need of furnishings, but no repsonses. finally, i finally got a hold of one. a free one. what more could i ask for? it was cheap, and a place to sleep. i talked to the guy on the phone. "there's no stains," he said. "it's a little worn. it was in this apartment i'm about to move into, and i just want to get rid of it. "

"you've got yourself a deal," i said.

my friends laura and andrew and i went to pick it up on sunday.

bob had the mattress waiting for us on the corner of toulouse and royal. he looked different than i expected. he was very professional sounding, with a steady voice. his waist long pony-tail threw me off a little bit, but it was well-groomed and healthy, at least.

the mattress wasn't what i hoped it would be, but, i reminded myself, nothing ever is. it was a little tattered near the handles, and it was a little dirtier looking than i had anticipated. a little lysol, i thought, will make it live-able.

we said goodbye to bob, and headed home. we carried it inside and propped it up against the wall so i could proceed with the lysol-ing. and then i saw it. it could be just a piece of dirt, mulch from the garden outside, i thought. but i looked closer just to be sure. a strange bug that i'd never seen before. "is that lice?" i asked in a loud voice, not a shriek, but very concerned. i thought i was just being overly concerned.

examining the bug, my roommate confirmed my analysis. i reached for the lysol, and sprayed. it scurried away. near tears, i looked blankly at laura and chrissy. this was no good. after much debate and encouragement from my friends, we carried the mattress outside and left it on the street for the garbage man or some unsuspecting fool, whoever got to it first.

the good news, is that i have made an investment in a bed, also used and from craigslist, but comfy and clean from a youngish couple. it was worth paying for the frame, springs, and mattress to know that i'm not going to be dealing with lice any time soon.

* * * * *

thursday i was working with C, a student in one of my intermediate classes. i'm not sure, but i think that chris has some sort of learning disability or possibly something more advanced than that. i'm not sure what it is, but there's something on the other side of his big liquid brown eyes that just doesn't seem to spark. he's mild-mannered and sweet, and he speaks so softly that sometimes i can't even hear him.

we were working on geometry, going over the basic perimeter and area of shapes. he understood perimeter pretty well, but the area was hard for him.

"okay, so if we're building a fence around the triangle, what do we do?"

"we add up the sides, ten plus ten plus ten."

"right. so now, C, if we want to cover our triangle with a tarp, what do we have to do?"

"wait, molly. what kind a tarp we need? how we gonna cover this triangle?"

i laughed a little bit, but C was completely earnest. he wanted to solve the problem to the best of his ability.

i tired to use it as a teachable moment. "well, C, it doesn't matter so much how we get the triangle covered right now. we have to figure out how much we are going to need in order to cover it?"

it was going nowhere, but he was trying. he'll get there. maybe we'll actually have to go buy tarp in order to help him understand.

there's no such thing as 10/9 anymore

Thoughts on My Old Boyfriend's Suicide

Someone else, he tried,
he tried to make it is.
He said he’s looked at
the other side of heaven, and
almost went there, too.
He didn’t choose to go.
I’m glad he didn’t get there.

(9/29)

A Bad Day

made me moody
today
to hear your name
spoken in a reverent way.
made me moody
today
to know that
tomorrow
some time ago
you
chose
to leave us.
me.

made me moody to
remember that
you wanted me to
be with you
and that you wanted
to go, too
made me moody
to remember
ketchup
and
lacing fingers
made me moody
to miss
made me moody
to want
stars
or
anything or anybody
else.
and it makes me moody
that
i don’t need you
so much anymore.

(10/8)

a magnet for the weird

i embrace weirdness. i mean, i really love it. maybe it's just recognize the rare opportunity that weird people offer. a truly strange person offers something that a normal person can never provide. those moments of anticipating the weirdness can be unbelievable strange, sometimes even terrifying, but the final results, are always remarkable. maybe there's something wrong with me, but i love weirdos. i love the days when i can walk home, and say "you'll never believe what just happened." maybe that makes me weird, and maybe that's why i love it so much; i really believe, though, that it's just because i have an itch for storytelling, to make the ordinary extraordinary.

so a few brief tales for your merriment. the first is titled, "high functioning." the second is, "don't talk to me at the dmv."

"high functioning"

on mondays and wednesdays, i'm the t.a. for an old gruff man by name of appel. he has snow-white hair and very big glasses. he smokes like a chimney, and everybody at work says that he never wants to go out for drinks after work when they go. but in the end, he always goes, and they say the bartenders always say "hey jim! it's been a while!" appel taught in the prison for a long time, so he's a straight shooter. there's no messin' around with jim appel; he tells it to you like it is a flat, chainsmoking voice, regardless of who's there. when he talks about the students in class who don't perform well, you'd think they were deaf as well as bad learners.

so we're out of class one day, waiting for the students to finish their teacher evaluation. under the awning where the sidewalk is outside of the classroom, appel happily smoked, as i stood there awkwardly with an older man who's smoking.

one of the girls i've seen on campus a few times walked our way. she wore an orange t-shirt with some sort of cartoon character on it and pulled a rolly backpack behind her. she had short, unkept hair, and the big waves bounced over her glasses as she walked. i'd seen her before, and heard her interact with a couple of students. i thought that she might have some sort of learning disability, but i wasn't really sure. little did i know i was about to find out.

she stopped three feet from me and said, "HEY. I LIKE YOUR SHIRT." she pointed at my blue and white polka dotted shirt. "I LIKE THE- THE- THE- THE-...."

"the polkadots?" i offered politely.

"YEAH. THAT'S IT." she put her arm down.

"thanks," i said politely.

"I'M HIGH-FUNCTIONING." she volunteered.

uhhhhh, what? quick respond politely, i thought to myself. outloud i said, hesitating, "that's great!"

the girl took three steps with her rolly back pack and suddenly belted out a melody, that would have made simon cowell hang his head. "YEAH, I KNOW," she said. "MOST PEOPLE ARE LIKE, 'THAT GIRL CAN SING?'" i wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

"yeah....you can," i said, uncertain whether my words should be punctuated as a statement or a question.

she took a few more steps, and turned to look at me again. she raised her arm and fist, as if she was going to flex her biceps, and said, "I'LL SEE YA LATER."

i was trying very hard to be polite, but this girl was cracking me up. "i'll see you later."

she took three more steps, raised her arm and turned over her shoulder one more time. her brow was furrowed, and she looked at her arm. "i'm not sure why i just did that."

i shrugged. i sure didn't know. i smiled and waved goodbye.

"you know," appel said, in his deep chainsmoking voice, "i've always sort of attracted weirdos. i'm glad to see you have the same quality."




"don't talk to me at the dmv"

so the time had come for many things. it was time for me to change my drivers license over. friday morning, one of the teachers, erin, drove me to the dmv in metairie (the next town over) to get my drivers license.

the day before she had driven me to the west bank to get it. after we finally found it (it was located in the building next to the toll booths on the highway....i know, i don't want to talk about it.), they told me i couldn't get my license there because that one only renews.

try two on friday led us to metairie. the line was nearly out the door when i got there. i stood in line 30 minutes to just get a NUMBER. i then had to wait for another 3 hours and 30 minutes for said number to get called.

still at hour number one and into the early part of number 2, erin waited patiently with me. we chatted some, and sat some. i looked at my drivers license some, a little sad that i was going to be parting with it (the picture was really good). we were bored, and i was miserable, but i knew that i would have perservere.

the woman next to me looked like she might be a hippie. her clothes were earth tones, a long brown frilly dress, a natural purple sleevless and short vest, and boots. her hair was long and braided, and there was some sort of purple-y, feather-y, hairband holding it back. had a notebook, and when she was done writing, she turned it over and started drawing.there were crosses and (i'm probably making it up, but it seriously suits her) feathers, and other things that hippies love, except i don't remember seeing any pictures of joints.

erin and i were quiet for a while, and then hippie lady done drawing, turned to me. "so ya'll just moved down here from illinois?" i hate it when people announce the S in "illinois." i automatically disliked her and her sticky-sweet southern draw. i made the mandatory small talk, hoping that we could get it over with and sit awkwardly, waiting for the automated voice to call our numbers. instead, she invited me to come to church with her there in metairie. i apologized, emphasizing that i really liked the church that i've been going to (i do), and praising it in every possible way.

she took a brief talking breather, and then started in her life story. she told me about her 6 year old son, how she moved here from mississippi, and how since she was attending seminary, she couldn't homeschool him. she told me how his teacher was too fat to stand for very long, and how she didn't see how such a fat woman could be a good teacher. she told me she was really praying about it, but she knew that she could do better than Fat Teacher. i awkwardly responded with the expected, "well, just keep praying about it." and "i'm sure you'll find other ways to teach him." i had the sense she was trying to start one of those deep conversations on theology that christians sometimes have.

erin sat silently next to me, trying not to laugh as she read her book. when it became clear that my number would not be called for some time, erin headed back to work, abandoning me to Hippy Christian.

Hippy Christian and i sat there quietly for a while. i texted on my phone, counted numbers, and looked down the long drab hallway, wondering how much longer til my number 268 would be called. suddenly i could feel her eyes on me. i did not make eye contact.

"so," she said in her thick mississippi accent, "how do you see yourself spiritually?"

she really was trying to have one of those theological conversations in the middle of the dmv. i was so baffled by the question in the middle of a government office, that i bumbled my words. after saying, "um, uh, um...i...i...how...um...." i finally concluded with, "i think we have to define what spirituality is." i was hoping, somehow, that this would be a sufficient answer.

then dr. weborg popped into my head. i tried to think like him, but he's so much older and wiser, and so much more of an actual pastor than i am, that i totally failed at my task. feeling pressured to give an answer, i muttered something about community, and volunteering because i believe in acting.

when she started to respond with something like, "but JESus."

at that point, i'd had enough. "yes, i know," i said curtly. "you can save it. i grew up in a christian home, have been to church my entire life, and went to christian college. thank you, but i already know about Jesus." and in case that wasn't enough, i dropped the hint that i was done with the conversation by saying, "i really wish i had remembered to bring a book with me."

her response? "here, i have my devotional."